


An Angel's Grace

by zeta_leonis



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angel Magnus, Angels, Angst, Archangel Raphael - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Hunter Alec, Hunter Clary, Hunter Isabelle, Hunter Jace, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prophet Simon, Rated E for later chapters, Religious Themes, Supernatural AU - Freeform, tags will be added later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeta_leonis/pseuds/zeta_leonis
Summary: Archangels are tied to prophets, acting as their protectors when the need arises - each prophet has an archangel tethered to them.Or, alternatively:Simon doesn't need Heaven when he's in Raphael's arms.





	1. Chapter 1

Simon’s heart is beating hard against his ribs, threatening to burst through his chest. He’s panting, trying to get more air into his lungs, his throat burning from the cold air. His chest hurts, his legs and muscles are screaming at him to stop, but his mind is telling him to _run._

He looks behind himself, and the woman is still there, chasing him relentlessly. He groans and tries picking up the pace. His feet slam into the pavement at top speed and then pick up again, and he doesn’t think he’s run this much or this fast since he was twelve. His jacket is flying behind him, and his shirt is sticking to his body due to the sweat.

He skids on the pavement and makes a sharp turn to the left, in a small alleyway between two run down buildings. There’s a line of trashcans up ahead. He jumps, foot clanging against the metal cover, but it’s not good enough. He loses his balance and topples over, along with the trashcans, making a loud crashing noise of metal on metal. Simon’s sprawled on the floor, panting harshly, chest heaving. He sees the silhouette of the woman at the end of the alleyway, and her white teeth shine in the moonlight as she turns to him.

Simon scurries back, unable to stand up, his ankle hurting terribly, every move of his foot sending needles of pain along his leg. It’s sprained.

The woman closes in on him when he can’t retreat backwards any further, since the road is there and he doesn’t want to be run over by a car.

Her grin stretches into a twisted grimace, and her eyes turn black, making her look inhuman, beastly, otherworldly. Even though her eyes are as black as ink, he can still see the madness in her eyes, the unadulterated insanity.

She doesn’t speak, but instead stretches her arm out, curling her fingers around empty air. She starts twisting her hand slowly, and Simon feels his neck twist to the side slowly, uncontrollably. His mouth falls open in a silent shout, trying to pull his neck back, because he knows that if these keeps up it’ll snap.

All of the sudden, a blinding white light fills his vision. He closes his eyes instinctively, and yet the light still burns hot at his eyelids, makes his skin burn. He doesn’t scream though, his voice caught in his throat, his vocal chords tied in a knot.

His ears are ringing, the shrilling whine of alarm inside his head, seemingly slashing at his brain with sharp blades. He holds his hands over his ears, noticing the pressure on his neck is gone, and folds into himself, curling up into a ball. He’d cry, because he’s never felt this kind of fear and confusion in his life, but he can’t because the burning light dries his tears.

And just like it started, it’s over. The light fades, recedes, and his mind is empty, the silence a peaceful relief to the earlier pain in his throbbing head.

He waits for a few seconds before opening his eyes slowly, blinking to get used to the darkness, white spots flashing everywhere, like when you look too close at the Sun. A car passes behind him, and he can hear it, so it means he’s not deaf. He’s not blind, either.

Someone is standing above him, but he doesn’t know who it is, and he can’t tell because he’s only seeing their legs.

His head is spinning, and the white dots are completely blocking out his vision. His head feels like someone’s drilling into it. He collapses onto the ground, exhausted. His vision goes black.

 

...

 

When he awakes, he’s in bed. The blankets are over him, and his head doesn’t ache anymore. He groans, and moves around in bed. Nothing hurts. Good. He holds his hands up to his face, and though his vision is somewhat blurry, it’s because he’s not wearing glasses. He puts them on.

Now that his vision is clear, he looks around his bedroom, hearing the bones in his neck creak.

And then he almost gets a heart attack.

Someone is sitting on the chair beside his bed.

Simon jumps and screams, scurrying away from the man sitting in his room.

“Who are you? _What are you doing in my room?_ ” Simon exclaims weakly, reaching around behind himself for anything he can use as a weapon. It turns out to be a ballpoint pen. Not the best he could hope for, but it could potentially blind someone, or at least seriously bruise.

The man turns to look at him, and if it weren’t for the fear racing in Simon’s veins, his breath would’ve been taken away because Simon thinks he’s just found the most beautiful man on Earth.

His skin is tanned, olive coloured. His features are polished, refined, his cheekbones high and prominent, his jaw hard-set. His lips are from another world, rosy and full and soft. His hair is dark brown, slicked back, the colour of earth and a dark sunset. His eyes are what shock Simon the most - brown too, but piercing, sharp, attentive, resembling smoky quartz. He doesn’t even look real. He’s clad in a dark leather jacket and jeans, contrasting with the stark white room.

“I am the angel Raphael, one of the seven, who stand before the Lord.” the man says with a booming, reverent, powerful voice. Simon recognizes the saying, because though he was raised jewish, he’s read the Bible before.

“You’re insane.” Simon concludes, pointing the pen at him more insistently, trying to get off the bed by inching slowly to the edge.

“I insist, I am completely sane.” Raphael continues, still not taking his eyes off Simon. The boy can feel his gaze through him, sending cold shivers down his spine.

The man moves, and when he shifts in his seat, his jacket moves aside, and a gleam of a blade shines in sunlight.

Simon feels fear knot up his throat and clench at his stomach, paralyzing him completely. This ‘angel’ doesn’t make a show of it, or take it out. Simon’s synapses are firing, his mind racing to find a way to escape this situation. He doesn’t know how this man got in, but just by checking his body structure, he knows he’s stronger, if his wide shoulders and strong arms are anything to go by. He slowly moves a hand to the drawer in the bedside table where he keeps his phone, and reaches for it blindly, trying to make as little noise as possible while he tries thinking of ways to distract Raphael.

“Prove it, then.” Simon challenges. “Prove you’re an angel.”

“I do not think you wish me to.” The man says, calmly. It irks Simon. He won’t take his eyes off him, so he can’t possibly dial 911, not when he’s watching. He might take out that blade he saw earlier.

“I do. If you don’t do it, then I can’t believe you.” Simon counters, feigning confidence.

Raphael sighs. “Fine. But I warn you, this might anger you.”

Simon is baffled, but he nods anyway. He needs to leave this room and escape, before he gets chopped up into tiny pieces by this - _lunatic._

The man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He extends his arms, and Simon takes his chance. He dials 911, presses the phone to his ear, and waits for someone to pick up.

Nobody does. If they did, Simon couldn’t hear it, because a simultaneous cracking and crashing sound echoed throughout the apartment. Glass shattering, falling to the floor in a thunderous second.

Simon pulls the phone away from his ear, and sees light smoke coming out of the back. He opens it and coughs as some more smoke puff up in his face. The battery is fried.

 _“What did you do?”_ Simon yells, looking around the room. On the floor, at the foot of his bed, broken glass from the lamp that once hung from the ceiling lays there in shards. He crawls onto all fours and looks down the hall, and realises the lights there are broken too.

“Get. Out. Of. My. House.” Simon grits out. Nobody can hear him, even if he screamed - all his neighbours leave for work early, and he lives on the top floor.

The boy then flings the broken phone at him and runs for it, jumping over the broken glass. He locks himself in the bathroom but - _‘Ah!’_

The lights aren’t on, so he doesn’t see the broken glass on the floor. He yelps in pain and falls to the floor, clutching his bare feet in pain. Blood is trickling down his hand, warming it, pooling on the floor. It hurts like hell, and when he feels around his foot, he accidentally pushes the glass in further, making him scream in agony. His pain tolerance has always been very low, ever since he was a kid. He knocked his pinkie on a table once and had ice on it for three days.

Now it feels like someone’s stabbed his foot all the way through, like someone’s driven a thunderbolt into his body. He whimpers in pain, refusing to cry, just trying to stop the bleeding by applying pressure with his fingers. He painfully shifts to where the toilet paper roll is, and he takes a lot of it, holding it to the wound.

He closes his eyes and tries relaxing his body, tries to block out the pain like they do in books.

_‘He ignores the pain.’ ‘She runs through the pain of her injury.’_

That’s always been bullshit to Simon. He’s always had a low tolerance for pain, and having a piece of glass shoved in your foot hurts like a bitch.

His head feels hot against the cool bathroom tiles, and he’s on the verge of tears.

Suddenly, the lights switch on. The blood is still on the floor, but the glass is gone, and the lights are shining. Simon squints his eyes and looks up to see Raphael kneeling over him.

Painfully, groaning with every move, he squirms away, until his back hits the wall.

“Get away from me.” he seethes, but Raphael’s determined expression is unchanged and unwavering.

“You’re hurt. I must protect you.” Raphael says, and gives no further explanation. Simon is terrified, and his whole body shakes with fear.

“Stay away,” Simon says weakly, putting up a shaky hand that lightly brushes Raphael’s chest.

Raphael ignores him, and presses two fingers to his forehead.

A strange, fuzzy, warm feeling runs through Simon, like getting covered in a blanket in winter, easing his pain and calming his mind. His eyes close, and he lets the feeling run through him, revelling in the comfort and warmth.

When he opens his eyes, the searing pain is no longer there. He knows no more than seconds have passed, but it felt like hours, in the odd warmth that flowed from the tip of Raphael’s fingertips -

_Raphael._

“What - what are you?” he asks now, panic rising in his voice. He’s scared again. The lights in the bathroom have been fixed, so he assumes the rest are too.

This person - man - thing - is evidently not human, and Simon feels something odd coiling in his stomach, a mix of fears and curiosity that he feels betray his primal instinct to _get the fuck out of there._

Simon stands up, puts a hand on the sink, leaning against it. He’s dizzy, confused. Does this have anything to do with the previous night?

“I told you,” Raphael speaks in that annoyingly calming voice that Simon is starting to despise slightly. “I am the archangel Raphael.”

Simon’s eyes have blown wide, and he’s gripping at his hair with one hand, tugging harshly, hoping the pain will wake him up from this horrible nightmare he’s having.

“But you can’t be!” Simon shouts, furious. He doesn’t know why - maybe it’s his emotions boiling over, his confusion blending with the muddled feeling in his brain from the odd healing mere seconds ago.

“Why not?” Raphael asks, standing up and facing him. The look in his eyes is something Simon can’t quite place - something he’s never seen before, like he’s a robot, like he’s not staring at anything yet focused completely on him at the same time. It doesn’t scare Simon, just unsettles him.

“Because I’m an atheist!” Simon yells back. His brain hurts, everything he’s believed up until now is wrong. He wants to think this is a horrible nightmare, but he can’t, because the reasonable part of him _knows_ it’s not.

The angel, finally, shows some emotions and rolls his eyes. “That’s not how it works.”

His irritated tone of voice shocks Simon, and he blinks twice, taken aback. He curls his fingers against the sink and breathes, deeply, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Raphael is still there.

“Why are you here?” Simon croaks, throat raw and aching from the screaming.

“Because you are a prophet of the Lord.” Raphael says in his monotone, calm voice.

If there was a maximum level of confusion, Simon is at it, because now he can’t keep his grip of reality.

_“What?”_

Raphael frowns for a moment, before continuing. “You are a prophet of the Lord, chosen to interpret the word of God.”

Simon feels strange, dizzy. His head feels like it's made of lead, the gooey substance filling the crevasses in his brain.

“I can’t be.” Simon counters, trying to find the last bits of logic he can. “Struggling poets are _not_ Heaven’s prophets.”

“Just - listen to me, will you, you stubborn bastard!” Raphael blows up at him.

Simon is genuinely taken aback, and he leans on the sink, inching away from the angel before him, wanting to close his eyes and block out the intense stare he’s receiving from this otherworldly being, but he can’t, trapped in the irises like quicksand.

The angel doesn’t seem to notice Simon’s fear, he doesn’t seem to notice the way Simon’s legs quiver and shake, or how the boy’s hands tremble, or how his eyes are pleading for him to stop, to shut up, to leave and forget this ever happened.

 _“Listen to me.”_ Raphael says, leaning even closer still, arms on either side of Simon’s body, his stare the most intent and intense Simon has ever had the chance to lay eyes upon, his eyes simultaneously the most terrible yet the most beautiful he has ever seen, eyes like flame and eyes like sand, eyes like steel and eyes like thunder, furious yet calm eyes, a gaze of calm storm. “You are Heaven’s chosen, Simon Lewis. What you write will be recorded in History, your life shall be told for generations, the paths you walk, venerated, and the air you breathe, desired. You will lay down and interpret the Word of God, of Angels, of the Heavenly, and it shall be treasured, and passed on. You, Simon Lewis, were handpicked by the Lord himself.

"Treat this opportunity wisely. Do as told, and rewards unimaginable await you in the golden skies.

"Simon Lewis, you are one of many, but will be like none.”

Raphael is leaning even closer, and his voice reverberates inside Simon, a constant echo that promises glory. It’s indescribable to anyone that hasn’t heard it, something one can’t replicate in any earthly way.

Simon thinks. For the longest time, he thinks, the words Raphael has said caught between them. He finally has the courage to ask, to put his thoughts into words, and they come out raspy and rough, like they’re sandpaper against his throat. “Why me?”

“History has always had its eye on you, Simon Lewis.” Raphael replies, angelic and deep, something powerful behind it, a sense of undeniable truth hiding beneath every word.

And just like that, he’s gone.

Simon hears something like the flap of wings, feels a gust of air hit his face gently, moving his hair, he sees a wisp of gold, and then nothing but the expanse of his bathroom and the corridor wall.

He shakes his head a few times, trying to find the sense in the senseless, logic where there is none, explain the unexplainable, and attain the unattainable by thinking about this in a rational manner.

 _I need something strong_. Simon thinks, and heads for the kitchen. He opens the alcohol cabinet, pulls out the vodka from the back, and takes two big gulps.

What he doesn’t see, however, as he leaves the bathroom, is the golden feather that gently falls to the tiled floor.  
  
...  


“Make it stop, make it stop, make it _stop!_ ” Simon yells at nobody, gripping the sides of his head like they’re about to fall off as he rolls back and forth on the floor.

A loud screeching noise is rattling inside his head, the sound piercing through his ears, gnawing away at his brain. It feels as if someone had put a spear through one of his ears and it had come out the other, slicing a hole in his head. The loud screeching noise wouldn’t stop, like a thousand times the cry of an unearthly beast.

Simon doesn’t know how long it’s been going on for - seconds, hours, minutes, days, years, centuries. He’s lost the perception of time, the pain in his head the only thing he can focus on. Tears are welling in his eyes and he can’t take it, his eyes screwed shut in pain and his teeth grit tight, already hurting his jaw.

“Please, just make it stop.” Simon pleads in a low voice, almost a whimper, to no one, to anybody that’ll hear. The dim afternoon light shining in through the windows too bright, the feeling of the wooden floor beneath his knees too cold, the clothes he’s wearing are itchy, the glasses resting on his nose too heavy.

Simon knows nobody can hear him, but he still wishes the pain away.

Far away, as if he weren’t in his body, lightly, he feels a hand on his back, rubbing it. He can barely feel it, but he knows the hand is warm. It’s soothing, but it can’t calm him down. He rolls onto his side, and feels his back hit something, someone. The warmth helps relax him as the pain subdues the tiniest bit, the screeching and wailing inside his head lowering a bit. The high pitched sounds are not in any scale measured by men, for if they could it would break glass, and tear through metal like a blazing beam of light.

“Please…” Simon sobs, brokenly, his hands tugging hard at his hair, hurting his head, but it’s not enough to stop the onslaught of pain he feels.

The hand keeps rubbing his back, now gently skimming his side with their fingers. Something else comes into contact with him. It’s something that feels like a feather, light and soft, brushing his face. Even through closed eyelids, he can see this - like a ray of gold, the soft glint of warm yellow light bathing his vision, turning the night to day.

The pain is softly subduing, the sound gently dulling down until he can’t hear it anymore. Everything feels too quiet now, silence filling the empty space left by the screeching.

A familiar feeling rushes over him then, a fuzzy, warm feeling that emanates from a single spot in his forehead. It wraps him up, fixing the damage slowly. The ringing in his ears is gone, and so are the tears, now dry. The feeling is gone.

He opens his eyes, and he catches something - a flash of gold that catches the setting sun, flames that burn dimly before Simon. Then he hears a rush of wind, and silence fills him once more.

Now that the presence is gone, a deep feeling of loneliness settles upon him. He tries to imagine, to recreate the warmth mentally, the comfort of being touched by those hands, but as hard as he tries, he can’t.

He doesn’t see the feather that falls behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

When he finally lifts his hands off the keyboard, he’s asleep, and it’s the next day.  He doesn’t do it of his own volition. If he could, he would’ve spent the next week writing non-stop, but his body pleads for him to rest, and stop.

Ever since he heard that wailing in his head, he’s been writing for hours on end, the commands and words spouting forth like his hands are the fountain and the words his water, rushing out of him continuously.

He slams the keys out of control, not knowing what he’s writing, like he’s a robot, just jotting down the orders from above.

When he finally lifts his hands off the keyboard, he’s in deep sleep, dreaming.

  
  


Raphael clicks his fingers, and Simon falls asleep slowly. The angel sighs, moving Simon’s hair out of his face. He stared for long minutes at him, at the poet’s soft features. His hair is disheveled, messy, just like it always is. His eyes are hidden behind black glasses, and the slightest hint of a five o’clock shadow frames his face. Raphael watches him sleep, mesmerised. Angels don’t sleep, because they don’t need to, but he’s never been so close to a sleeping human, in all his years of existence. He is the angel of healing, but after curing his patients he leaves. He never watches them sleep.

Raphael picks Simon up like he’s a feather, weightless, and carries him to his bed. He lays him down softly. He sits and watches for a while longer, timing his breathing to Simon’s. It’s incredible to him, how vulnerable he is, like a newborn, like a flower, left to the mercy of those who live around it.

Raphael has been alive since the world was created, and only his six brothers wield the same power he does, have the same strength he does. If he wanted to, he could destroy the world in a blink of an eye, he could cause chaos and destruction and rain havoc upon the earth like nothing humanity’s ever seen.

And yet, the task of _this_ human being’s life depending on him weighs him down like the weight of the world. He feels like Atlas, balancing the planet upon his shoulders.

He unfolds his wings, and reaches one out to brush Simon’s cheek gently, gold catching starlight through the window.

 _“Sleep, my prophet.”_ he murmurs, low in his throat. He pulls his wing back, and leaves the room, the wind he creates after blowing Simon’s hair back in his face.

  
  


The next morning, Simon wakes up to find a golden feather on his bedside table. He has never seen anything like it before - it shimmers and shines like gold, but it is as light as a normal feather, and the way it gleams is different, not like the sheer brightness of metal, but more like the dancing vivacity of flames. He holds it out, twirls it in his hand, skims over it with the pad of his finger. It’s hot to the touch, which it shouldn’t be, because it’s winter. Though he sleeps next to the heater, the feather should be cold. Inanimate objects don’t have their own source of heat.

He leaves it where he found it, and makes himself a cup of coffee. He realises something as he steps towards the kitchen - his mind is at peace. There is nothing urging him to write, to tell, to translate, to work like he has for the past six days.

_“...and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.”_

Simon jumps in his skin, terrified at the sudden deep voice that assaults him. He recognises it.

“Don’t scare me like that!” Simon chastises, and Raphael frowns.

“You asked a question. I answered.” Raphael says simply, as if that explains it.

Simon takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

Simon feels odd at being watched so closely. He moves around the kitchen uneasily as a pair of eyes watch him intensely.

“What,” Simon teases, turning to look at the angel. “have you never seen someone make a cup of coffee before?”

Raphael leans against the kitchen counter. “No.”

Simon arches an eyebrow. “Really? You’ve been alive for so long, I thought…” he trails off.

“I am an archangel. I do not deal with the mundane. I have not eaten or drank in centuries.”

 _There it is again,_ Simon thinks. That voice, clear and high with impotence.

“You’re really missing out, then. Pizza is amazing.”

Simon giggles at a dumbfounded Raphael, and he sits at the table, steaming mug of coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

“Simon.” Raphael says, sitting in the chair across from him.

“Mmmhmm?” Simon looks up from his phone to lock gazes with Raphael. It’s far too intense, almost distressing, to have him staring like that, so the prophet looks away.

“Why do you live in this place?” Raphael asks, confusing Simon. That wasn’t what he expected.

“What do you mean?” Simon replies.

“This - house. It’s - it’s - well, it’s run-down, for starters. Far too old, far too faulty. Have you not a better place to stay?” Raphael asks this like the answer is obvious, like it’s an easy problem to fix. Simon doesn’t know whether to feel offended, amused or embarrassed.

“Well - uh - you see, poetry has never been a good business unless you’re successful. I am not. The books I sell are hardly enough to pay rent, let alone fix this place. The new phone isn’t even mine, my friend had his old one lying around and he gave it to me. I told you before, I am a struggling poet. Of course, you wouldn’t understand, what with living in Heaven and all…” he whispers the last sentence under his breath, thinking Raphael wouldn’t be able to hear it.

“I cannot help that I reside in Heaven, or that I am an archangel.” Raphael says, very matter-of-a-fact-ly.

“Well I can’t help being poor either, okay?” Simon spits, getting worked up for no reason. He shouldn’t be mad, but he is. Raphael looks surprised at the sudden outburst. Simon’s eyes soften, and he lowers his tone, trying to make it less harsh. “Look, I could choose to work as something else. I could work at McDonald's, or in an office doing paperwork, but instead, I do what I do because I love writing. The sales are just enough to scrape by, and since I don’t really need the money, I’ll keep doing this. Sure, the bathroom needs a little fixing, and the paint is flaking off the walls, but for now, it’s just enough.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer something else?” Raphael is curious about his new prophet, undoubtedly.

“No, not really.”

Simon downs the coffee in his hands, bitter because he hates adding sugar to it. He stands, and puts it in the sink.

He’s about to leave the kitchen, when someone tugs at his arm.

“Wait, Simon - stay.”

The younger man turns, surprised, and nods. _It’s strange,_ he thinks, _how I do whatever he wants. Will I always be at his will?_

“I must confess something.”

Simon’s eyes widen. He sits down on the table, and nods, urging the archangel to continue.

“I’ve never had a prophet, or been tied to one.” Raphael looks away. “You are my first.”

Simon doesn’t know what to say - he’s shocked to say the least. He’d thought that, since Raphael is such an important archangel, he would have had more prophets in the past. Simon doesn’t know how to feel - honoured, maybe.

“I’m nervous now,” Simon speaks finally.

“Why?” Raphael asks him, glancing up from the floor, morning sun making his dark eyes shine.

“I’ve never been anyone’s ‘first’ anything. And I’ve certainly never been a prophet. It’s a strange sort of weight on me, like I’m meant to do something, or live up to expectations.” Simon explains, leaning his chin on his hand.

“What expectations would I have, when I have nothing to rely upon, or guide me as to what makes a ‘good’ prophet - though I don’t believe there is such a guide.

“Write, Simon Lewis, and you will be a good prophet.”

Raphael’s voice makes him tremble, unable to meet the angel’s gaze. Simon looks askance, huffing under his breath. _“You must be fun at parties.”_

“What was that?” Raphael leans forward.

“Nothing.”  

Suddenly, maybe because of their link, or his being a prophet, faded memories come to life then die in his head, like a polaroid developing in reverse.

He gets memories of a great battle, in which there is nothing but blinding light and a darkness like the universe itself. He gets memories of flames, glory, of a demon and desert dunes.

Simon grips his temples and closes his eyes, breathing hard. Something is shearing past the mental block in his mind, tearing away at him, like a great blazing spear piercing through his head.

“It’s coming back, Raphael - I -” Simon struggles to find the words, instead shooting up and rushing to his laptop, opening it at lightning speed.

“I want to stop,” Simon whimpers meekly, looking at the angel with pleading eyes. “Please, make it stop.”

His eyes hold something, a dying glint behind the begging irises, seemingly saying, _‘You promised I could rest.’_

Raphael feels, for the first time in eons, something tugging at the strings of his heart.

“I can’t,” Raphael whispers, and looks at Simon apologetically, knowing it’s pathetic, and not enough, not enough for his prophet, but he can’t do anything else. “I’m sorry.”

Simon’s eyes are blazing in pain, because he knows he’s going to spend the next days writing endlessly, unable to give in to sleep or hunger or thirst.

And Raphael needs to leave.

Simon’s tear and the golden feather hit the floor in unison.

  


_“And the Angel goeth back,_

_to the desert where the demon was bound,_

_but he shall not be alone -_

_for the prophet there will be found.”_

  


“Soon, the time will come.” says Magnus, sprawled on the couch with a leg slung over the back, and another on the other dangling over the edge.

“What do you mean?” Raphael asks, sitting in the chair opposite the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

It's a lazy afternoon, one where not even angels want to work.

Simon's teary eyes burn in Raphael’s mind. Every time the subject comes up, it's like giving the embers life once more, lighting the spark that gives way to the flame that is his guilt.

“You know what I mean. You have seen the prophet’s writing.” Magnus explains, with a matter-of-a-fact tone of voice.

Raphael doesn’t answer, merely glares at the other angel. Magnus laughs at his expression.

“Calm down brother; I am merely stating the facts. Is it a crime now, to tell the truth?”

Raphael presses his lips into a line. “No; but it is a crime to irritate me further.”

“What will you do? Smite me?” Magnus’ joyful laughter resonates around the apartment with an echo, and though it normally annoys Raphael to no end, he finds it comforting, something to go home to - though he’d rather cut off his wings than admit it. Not that Magnus doesn’t know.

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

Raphael won’t, of course, because he loves Magnus, and smiting someone requires a lot of effort _and_ energy, and Raphael has neither.

“Magnus, I didn’t come here for chatter.” Raphael’s expression turns dark, suddenly.

“Oh?” Magnus feigns surprise. “What _did_ you come for?”

“I need your help.” Raphael moves closer to the other angel, though he knows no one can hear them.

“What can I do?” Magnus asks.

“I need to prevent the Event from happening.” Raphael’s tone is dark, and concerning.

“Why?”

“I...I cannot let Simon suffer.” The archangel looks away, staring so hard at the floor Magnus fears for his floorboards.

“Simon? The _prophet?_ ” Magnus howls in laughter again, until he sees Raphael is not laughing, at all, and he stops. “Oh - you’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

The older of the two stands up, beginning to pace the room. Magnus watches with observant eyes at his brother, forever left to wonder what goes on in his head. He’s sure he can hear the cogs and wheels turning in Raphael’s brain, if he listens hard enough.

“Have you begun caring for the boy, Raphael?” Magnus inquires, narrowing his eyes at the pacing man. The older stills for a moment, turning his head to look at Magnus, before continuing to pace.

“I cannot answer.” comes Raphael’s meek, barely there reply, a stale tone of voice making the words seem harsher than usual.

“Yes you _bloody_ can.” Magnus presses, standing up too.

Raphael turns to him once more, contained rage shining in the smoky gems of his eyes.

“So what if I care for him? It is my job as archangel, is it not?” Raphael and Magnus are face to face, in a standoff-ish way, in which Magnus is looking up at his brother, a completely different fire dancing inside him.

“It is not! Your job is to protect him - caring was never in the job description.” Magnus’ voice is exasperated, frustration seeping into the cracks of his tired tone.

“Do you know what you are? You are a hypocrite.” Raphael spits, then turns away. Magnus is shocked.

“Excuse me?” The fire contained in the younger of the two spreads, soon to light Raphael’s own ire. “Me, a hypocrite?”

“Yes, you! Here you are, yelling at me for caring about my prophet, yet you speak nothing of the Lightwood boy!”

That is the last straw for Magnus. “Do not speak of him!”

Raphael turns around once more. “So here I am, your brother, asking you to help me prevent the very possible death of a human, one I happen to care about, and you are laughing at me and denying me help when you have a human lover! It is honestly pathetic.”

“I have never denied you my help - I was just asking about why you needed it. You know how rare it is, for archangels to love prophets.” Magnus relaxes, calms his tone of voice.

“I do not love the boy - I care for him. It’s different.” Raphael counters, relaxing too, taking a deep breath. The image of a crying, desperate Simon comes back, and Raphael feels his heart break in his chest. If the boy cannot withstand the pain now, he will never survive the next month.

“You have barely known him for two weeks, how could you possibly care for him?” says Magnus, softly now, the apologies going unsaid between them.

“It’s - I can’t explain. There is something that ties us, a bond that runs straight through us and pulls us together, making us one, indivisible. There is no one without the other.” Raphael explains as best as he knows.

Magnus sighs, and sits down again. His eyes are sad and apologetic when he glances back up at Raphael through heavy curtains and thick lashes.

“Now is when I must tell the truth - I know of no way to stop the Event. Raphael, I am not an archangel; I don’t have and never will have the power you have. If you cannot stop it, nothing can. It is a prophecy written by the chosen mouthpieces of Heaven. The order comes directly from above,”

“I know one thing now.” Raphael sits down with a huff.

“Yes?”

“I’m fucked.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was meant to update last weekend, but I was busy with school and my other story, so here's this chapter, even though it's (somewhat) late!!  
> Also, apparently there's a new season of Shadowhunters coming soon?? I had no idea.  
> In my life news, I have a crush on a boy from my class! And my best friend is an idiot.  
> Anyway, I hope you like this! Even though this chapter is a bit shorter, the next ones will be longer, trust me. I have a lot of research to do.  
> Feedback is always appreciated.  
> :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, I finally updated on time! Weeeeeeee  
> I've also got two exams to study for and a book to finish, but who needs that when you have fanfics?  
> sigh  
> Enjoy this product of my procrastination:

Over the next few weeks, they get closer to each other.

Simon comes to terms with the process, with the intensity of the visions, of having Raphael around him all the time, like a shadow. Or an odd cat.

Raphael relieves him of the pain, if only for a few hours, enough for him to eat, drink and rest.

Simon hears before he sees, the flapping of wings, the gust of wind that moves his hair, and the warm touch on his forehead.

“Raphael,” Simon murmurs, relieved.

“Yes?” Raphael answers, sitting on the bed beside Simon, who’s lying down on it.

“Nothing. I was just acknowledging your presence.” Simon laughs dryly, and then turns his head to look away from Raphael. Something inside him has changed, but he doesn’t know what. His heart beats faster, his stomach clenches unwantedly, his fingers tremble, his skin tingles - but not all the time. It’s only when his guardian angel is in the room.

“Are you alright?” Raphael asks, reaching a hand to his forehead. Simon’s whole body shakes, just slightly, and his breathing hitches, though Raphael doesn’t notice. He never does.

In fact, the angel turns his palm, and strokes Simon’s cheek with the back of his hand. He keeps moving his hand, down to his neck, all whilst Simon keeps utterly still and his chest hardly moves when  he breathes.

When Raphael reaches down lower, Simon’s hand shoots up automatically, catching the angel’s wrist in a vice grip.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Simon asks, turning to face Raphael. The angel doesn’t blush, but he looks away, clearly embarrassed.

“Checking your temperature.” he answers.

Simon would say something, but he’s too tired, so he just sighs and lets go of the angel’s wrist.

“How long is this going to last?” Simon breaks the silence. “This - break.”

The prophet looks up at Raphael’s face just in time to see it darken. His eyes harden and his jaw sets, and it’s so slight, most people wouldn’t notice, but Simon and Raphael are bound by something out of comprehension, so Simon notices.

“I don’t know. Not this time.” Raphael’s voice is grim and strained, and Simon gets the idea that he’s hiding something.

“What does that mean?” Simon sits up, leaning on his elbows. Raphael looks so beautiful like this, he thinks, when the golden afternoon light softens his features, turns his hair lighter and his eyes brighter. His eyes have a golden tone to them too.

Simon swallows his thoughts whole, represses them to the end of his mind, where not even the tendrils of consciousness can reach them.

“I can’t tell you.” is all Raphael offers, and Simon doesn’t press any further, because he knows that if he does the archangel will leave, and he doesn’t want that.

Simon merely runs his fingertips over Raphael’s arm, skating the pads of his fingers over the olive skin. Raphael looks at Simon in curiosity, and Simon tries not to blush.

“Stay,” he chokes, and Raphael tilts his head.

“What do you mean?”

“The night. I’m saying you should stay the night.”

Simon doesn’t know what overcomes him, but after such a wrecking week, he needs warmth, comfort, something to come back home to. Raphael’s hands were warm to the touch, so he tugs on his arm.

“Angels do not sleep.” Raphael explains, trying to understand.

“Then don't.” Simon looks at him almost pleadingly, and he'd be ashamed if only his brain were functioning properly. “Just - stay.”

Raphael was warned about this, about how prophets could become dependent on their archangel. He wants to pull away and leave, but he can't find the strength to look away from the brown eyes in front of him.

“Fine.”

Simon’s heart flutters against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, and he reprimands himself.

_What are you getting excited about? It’s Raphael._

_Exactly._

The prophet sits up when Raphael sits beside him in bed. “You are not sleeping in jeans.” he declares, and gets up. Raphael makes a sound of protest, but it dies when Simon throws him a pair of sweatpants from his wardrobe.

“But -” Raphael tries, but Simon raises his eyebrows and looks at him insistently.

“Just wear them.”

Simon averts his gaze when Raphael, who’s got absolutely no regard for the rules of social conduct, decided to change right there on the bed.

But he can’t deny he shoots furtive glances every now and then. His legs are long, slender, strong, corded with muscle. Simon then looks at his own lanky, skinny legs and his self-esteem drops by a lot.

“I’m done now.” Raphael announces after a few minutes.

“Much better,” Simon says, and moves to pick up his jeans and throw them over the back of the chair sitting in his room, piled to the top with dirty clothes not clean enough to keep in the closet, yet not dirty enough to put to wash.

“Simon,” Raphael says, “why did you look away when I was changing?”

“I -” Simon is at a loss for words. He’s never had to deal with someone like Raphael, one of the wisest creatures on this planet, yet one of the least experienced. In everything. “To not embarrass you.”

Raphael tilts his head, and at that moment, he reminds Simon of a confused puppy. “Why would I be embarrassed?”

Simon’s in despair. “I - look, it’s just something humans do, alright?”

“Oh.” Something flashes in Raphael’s eyes. “I thought maybe you deemed me not beautiful enough to be looked at without clothes on.”

Simon’s taken aback, because how could this magnificent creature ever believe he isn’t beautiful.

“No,” Simon murmurs, his voice dropping dangerously low. “never that.”

He reaches a hand up to Raphael’s face, and props his fingers under his chin, so he can turn the angel’s head in such a way they’re looking at each other in the eyes.

And now, Simon’s heart completely stops beating.

He isn’t used to such proximity, such closeness, such mesmerising eyes. They’re eyes deep like the ocean, but an ocean of gold and copper. His eyes are kilometres of desert sand that’s burning with heavenly fire. Simon’s not even sure Raphael’s eyes are real, and he leans in closer, to look even farther into them, to see if there’s anything beyond the misty plains of onyx.

“Simon,” Raphael warns, but his voice shakes.

“Raphael,” Simon counters, voice wavering. “You are definitely beautiful.”

They’re so close to each other Simon can count the small little scars and marks on his face, the tiny little bumps on his nose and cheeks. Simon can calculate the curve of his lips, the exact shade of red his cheeks flush. Their breaths are mingling but they’re barely there, and Simon’s still not sure this is real, or happening, or what’s taken over them…

The shrill sound of Simon’s phone ringing brings them back to Earth. Simon jumps away, and reaches to answer the phone, feeling disappointment coil in his stomach.

_But disappointment at what?_

“Hey Simon!” a girl’s voice says over the phone.

“Clary! I haven’t heard from you in a while! How are you?” Simon smiles fondly at the sound of his childhood best friend’s voice.

“I’m great! Jace is...what on earth is my boyfriend doing?” She asks herself, and there’s some muffled sounds and voices in the background, something about _‘No, you can’t somersault out of the window,’_ and _‘Because you’ll die!’._

“I am surrounded by idiots.” Clary confirms, sighing.

“I get the feeling.”

“So, how have you been? I haven’t heard much from you lately.” Clary says.

_Oh, that’s normal you see, I’m apparently a prophet and angels won’t stop talking to me and making me write it down for hours on end also I have an archangel attached to me who also happens to be super hot._

“Just fine. Busy, I guess.” Simon lies.

“Hey, do you mind us going over tomorrow? I miss you, and so does Izzy.” Clary says.

Simon’s eyes widen, because he doesn’t know how long the block on his mind will last. His hands sweat, he’s about to say no, but -

His eyes fall on the picture beside his bed, the one he took with Clary when they went skiing three years ago, and he realises how much he’s missed her. He throws caution to the wind, and agrees.

“Sure! I miss you too. But...Is Alec coming?” Simon asks, nervous.

“Yeah, why?”

“We don’t exactly...get along.”

“It’ll be fine! I have to go now, see you tomorrow!” Clary says, as energetic as ever. “Love ya.”

“Love you too, Clary.” says Simon, and hangs up.

He puts the phone back on his bedside table, and lies down once more, sighing.

“Who is that person, ‘Clary’? Is she your lover?” Raphael asks out of the blue, curious.

“What? No! She’s my best friend since we were kids ‘s all.” Simon explains, looking up at Raphael, who’s looming over him.

“Oh.”

Simon reaches a hand up, and pulls Raphael down beside him by his neck, making him lie down beside the prophet. Raphael makes a little _‘Oof!’_ sound when he hits the mattress.

“I need you to do me a favour,” Simon states, looking at the bed, pulling at the sheets. If he was so confident earlier, where has it all gone to?

“Anything.” Raphael is still so insistent, and over-the-top about everything. All his words sound more powerful and everything he says is more intense. Simon knows it’s true.

“Some friends of mine are coming over tomorrow. And…” he trails off.

“And?” Raphael inquires.

“And you have to - uh - hide.” Simon explains, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Hide? Why?” Raphael props himself up on one elbow. This is what Simon wanted, casual talks with Raphael as the light died outside, turning the room dark blue.

“Because...well, they don’t believe in monsters, or demons, or angels, or anything like that. And having you here, well, they’d be pretty terrified, and I don’t want -”

“So you’re saying you’re ashamed of me?” Raphael frowns, and sits up. Simon sits with him, reaching out to cup his hand, to pull him closer, to make him stay, or understand, or something in between.

“No - I - I’m just -” Simon is at a loss for words, something that rarely happens, but as Raphael tries pulling away his brain can’t function properly.

Over the last weeks, their bond has become irremediably close, the knot that ties them together getting tighter, the rope getting shorter, making them gravitate towards each other. Simon began to miss his angel when he was away, and to cherish their moments together. Raphael yearned to see his prophet, and starved for the sight of him.

Raphael knows it’s unhealthy, unnatural for an archangel and a prophet to love each other like this - _eros_ love. They shouldn’t even love each other, just need each other in a superficial way, maybe even _philia_ or _agape._ But not _eros._

Raphael isn’t even sure he loves Simon, just that he needs him close at all times, that without him he is a man lost at sea.

“You need me to leave,” declares Raphael, a hurt look in his eyes. Simon is shaking his head, made emotional by the constant shifts in pace and the feeling gnawing at his insides to pull this being towards him and never let go.

“No - that isn’t -” Simon tries, seemingly drowning in quicksand, every move he makes pulling him deeper, choking him.

“Then leave I shall.” Raphael states, ripping away from Simon. Simon isn’t crying, but he’s getting angry at himself for making Raphael upset.

The angel stands, closes his eyes, and disappears.

Simon is chastising himself when the feather lands on the empty pillow on the bed.

 

…

 

Simon rolls around in bed, and feels the other side of the bed is warm. He just feels strange at the lack of a body beside him. His eyes open a crack, a fraction, just enough to let the light through. The bed is empty.

He gets up and out, feeling like a bag of garbage. His mouth tastes like morning breath and disappointment, and something is compressing his chest and rising in his throat, something similar to a mix of sadness and unquenchable yearning.

It’s odd, this dependency they’ve created in such a short period of time. Simon needs Raphael close to him all the time, like a drug, like a lifeline.

He brushes his teeth and gets dressed like he doesn’t want to, like there’s a weight on him dragging his body down.

When the doorbell rings, he needs to stop himself from sighing.

“Simon!” Clary exclaims, throwing herself onto Simon, putting her arms around his neck.

“It’s eleven am. You should be killed.” Simon says, and fake groans, but Clary just laughs louder, her fiery red hair getting into Simon’s face (he cherishes it, secretly). In her ear, he whispers, “I missed you too.”

When she finally lets go, the rest come in. Jace, with his gold hair and cold, gold eyes that jump at the chance to underestimate and tease Simon; Alec, with his own way of looking down at people, and acting really high-and-mighty (though if you get him to loosen up he’s a really sweet guy); Isabelle, lively as a dancing flame, and dangerous as a poisonous snake; and Magnus, as eccentric as eccentric can get and always seemingly forgetting Simon’s name.

“Hey,” Jace says cooly, and shakes Simon’s hand. Alec doesn’t want to, at first, but Isabelle looks at him with insistent eyes and he does it, muttering a small ‘Hi,’ under his breath. Simon smiles as he screams internally. Magnus does shake his hand, closing the door behind him, grinning as he says, “Hello, Sherwin.”. Simon would say something, but instead, he chooses to just force himself to smile. Finally, Isabelle hugs him tightly, and Simon wraps his arms around her gently, blushing slightly when she pulls away to kiss his cheek.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi.”

Clary pulls him into a corner of the house, pressed between the table and the wall as she yells: “Make yourself at home!”

Simon yells back. “Please don’t!”

“Will do!” Jace retaliates, and Simon sees him put his feet up on the white couch. The prophet winces.

“Simon, look.” Clary says in a hushed voice, and she puts her hand out. On her index finger there’s a gold ring, inlaid with a design of strange runes Simon has never seen before.

“I don’t get it.” Simon states. The redhead rolls her eyes but smiles excitedly, glancing at Jace before looking back at Simon. He looks between the hand and Jace a few times, before it clicks in his head. A look of recognition flashes in his eyes, and Clary catches it, smiling at Simon in a full-toothed grin.

 _“He prop-”_ he drops his voice when Clary shushes him. “He proposed?”

“Yeah,”

“No way! I’m so happy for you, Clary!” Simon says genuinely, then pulls her into a tight hug, smiling too as she laughs into his ear.

“Yep! But don’t tell anyone, okay?” Clary says, and sticks out her pinkie finger once they draw apart. He takes it.

“Promise.”

When they get back to the others, Magnus is sprawled above one of the sofas like a cat, stroking Alec’s face and moving the hair out of it below; Jace is lying on the other sofa, playing with his phone and Isabelle is sitting in the armchair, speaking with Alec and Magnus.

“Okay, can everyone just sit like normal people, please?” Simon says, already frustrated. He loves them all to pieces (well, maybe not all. Just Isabelle and Clary. Jace, Alec Magnus are tolerated. Actually, only Magnus and Alec are tolerated. He just stands Jace for Clary’s sake), but they’re all a real pain in the ass sometimes.

With a groan, they all sit normally.

“So what have you been doing Simon?” Isabelle asks, leaning forward. “We haven’t heard from you in months.”

“Still writing trashy poems I suspect.” Jace quips, for which he gets hit with a cushion on the head by Clary.

“Still struggling to pay rent.” Alec says dismissively, and Isabelle stares daggers at him.

“I’m still writing,” Simon says, struggling to not throttle Jace. Or Alec. Or himself.

With the excuse of a bathroom break and giving them all coffee.

He loves Clary, but sometimes the rest can be a bit aggravating, if not hurtful.

In the bathroom, he closes the door, and sighs heavily. He washes his face, and then sees the black bags under his eyes. Clary whispered whether he was okay in his ear when she hugged him, and now he understands why.

He looks like a picture of death. His face is drained, pale, and above the black bags beneath his eyes the whites of them are red, from the lack of rest. His hair is greasy, and he looks like he hasn’t showered in a week, even though he just did two hours ago.

As he opens the bathroom door, something pulls him back by the arm.

“Raphael -” Simon exclaims, before the archangel’s hand is pressing against his mouth, shoving him against the wall.

“Simon,” Raphael’s tone of voice is urgent and insistent, but Simon doesn’t seem to hear it, far too overjoyed with the fact that he’s back.

“Raphael, where -” Simon tries once his mouth is released.

 _“Simon.”_ Raphael tries again, and it works. Simon calms down, his eyes turning hard now.

“What? You think you can just disappear and come back whenever you want, no warning, _nothing -”_

 _“Simon Lewis, listen to me.”_ Raphael says in _that_ tone of voice, the one that sends shivers down Simon’s spine every time, the deep one that he feels in every cell of his body. “Who are these people?”

Simon frowns at the question, but answers anyway. “My friends.”

“They can’t be.” Raphael says. “And how do you know Magnus Bane?”

 _And how do_ you _know him?_ Simon thinks, but doesn’t say it. “He’s Alec’s boyfriend, why?”

“Oh.” Raphael says, with a look that says that it all falls into place. For him. Simon still understands nothing.

“Raphael, what do you -” Simon asks again, but Raphael just leans in closer, almost pressing their foreheads together, and Simon is breathless.

“I need you to do me a favour.” Raphael whispers, and Simon nods, swallowing thickly around the forming knot in his throat.

“Let me explain this one thing, and you cannot speak until the end of it, okay? Or make noise.”

Simon is dumbfounded by the odd request, and takes a deep breath when Raphael pulls away.

“Simon, look. Do you see your friends?” Raphael says, opening the bathroom door and leaning out of it, pulling Simon with him.

Simon nods.

“Look at the redhead girl, and the others.”

They’re all standing around the table, hot mugs of coffee in hand.

“Look closer.” Raphael insists, but Simon still doesn’t understand.

“Look _closer._ ” The angel presses his fingers to Simon’s temple, and suddenly, Simon _sees._

In Clary’s jeans, in two straps on her legs, is a gun on each side, along with a knife. In Alec’s belt, hidden under the hoodie, are more guns. In Isabelle’s leather jacket, an arrange of throwing knives and daggers, and in her hair, hidden in a hairpin, a throwing star. It’s the same for Jace - guns in his belt, alongside silver knives and a bottle filled with a liquid - holy water.

Simon opens his mouth to gasp, but Raphael pulls him back into the bathroom.

“They’re hunters.” Raphael explains. “They chase down vampires. Monsters. All sorts of hellish beings. Even angels.”

“No -” Simon says, breaking the silence he said he’d maintain, completely disbelieving, even though he’s seen the evidence. “Clary, she’s - she’s always been afraid of weapons - I -”

“Monsters are real.” Raphael states. “It’s not just me. It’s everything - demons included.”

Even if Simon believes in angels now, he hadn’t thought about demons, or any other supernatural creature.

“Demons?” Simon asks, wide-eyed.

“Yes, demons. I need you to remember that, Simon. It’s very important. Understood?” Raphael says, intensely.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Raphael releases the grip he has on Simon’s forearms.

“I can’t interfere now, but you must get them out of here as soon as possible.” Raphael says, and Simon nods, throat dry.

“I’ll be back.” The archangel states. “You told me to warn you.”

“I did.” Simon agrees, nodding. It’s all too much, his head is spinning.

“Do not miss me too dearly when I depart - not this time, or my heart will ache for you too.”

Simon is so awestruck he forgets to say anything when Raphael leaves.

His friends are murderers, and that’s confusing, but what Raphael has said is even more.

Is it a love confession? Is it courtesy? Simon can’t stop thinking about the words, but he swallows down the yearning in his stomach, and turns to face his friends.

“Where were you?” Magnus asks.

“Obviously shitting his pants at my awesomeness.” Jace replies for him.

“That is not a word.” Simon replies flatly.

“It is.”

“Not.”

“Is.”

“Not.”

“Is…” Jace replies in a sing-song voice.

 

…

 

When they leave, Simon sighs in relief and shuts the door. He cleans up after everybody, and then sits on the couch. His phone is still playing music faintly in the distance.

He turns around, and Raphael is standing there, arms crossed over his chest.

“They’ve been here the whole day.” Raphael states, frowning.

“Yes well,” Simon replies tiredly. “I missed them.”

“Simon, you cannot throw caution to the wind like that -” Raphael starts, but Simon walks towards him, and takes his hand.

“And you cannot worry so much.” he mumbles.

Simon takes Raphael’s hands, and loops them behind his neck. He puts his hands on Raphael’s hips, and starts swaying them slowly.

“What are you doing?” Raphael asks, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Dancing. I like this song.” Simon replies easily. He’s giddy at the fact that he’s an inch taller than Raphael.

They don’t speak after that - not about the events of earlier today, Simon’s friends or the words Raphael said in the bathroom. They sway to the music. Simon mumbles the lyrics under his breath, looking into Raphael’s eyes.

_"We don't have to be ordinary_

_Make your best mistakes_

_'Cause we don't have the time to be sorry_

_So baby be the life of the party…"_

“I’m sorry.” Simon whispers, just high enough Raphael can hear.

“It’s okay. I know.” Raphael replies, and then they keep dancing. The city glitters behind them, through the windows, and the music dies behind them, but they’re still dancing. When it ends, Simon pulls Raphael to his chest, resting his chin on the archangel’s head.

“I need you to be strong for me, Simon.” Raphael pleads, in a tone of voice Simon’s never heard before.

The prophet has a lot of questions, but he doesn’t want to ask them, or ruin the moment. “Okay.”

Simon presses a kiss to the top of Raphael’s head, and Raphael presses one to the side of Simon’s throat, gently, it’s almost not there.

“I know you will be strong,” Raphael whispers. “My prophet.”

Simon feels the knot get tighter and tighter and the rope get shorter and shorter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you enjoyed this extra long chapter! Loads of saphael and action coming, so stay tuned for the next (and last) two chapters!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I have emerged from the dead.  
> Sorry I didn't post last weekend, I said I would, but then schoolwork piled up and I found no time to write. I finished this chapter this morning, so here you go!  
> I do hope you enjoy it, since the last one is coming soon!

Raphael shoves Magnus against the wall of the dingy apartment, making dust fly around them, the particles catching moonlight.

“Tell me all you know.” Raphael commands through gritted teeth in the deepest, most intense voice he can muster.

“About what?” Magnus counters with ease, returning the intense glare in Raphael’s eyes.

_“Everything.”_

“I knew the prophet beforehand, evidently.” Magnus says calmly. He doesn’t seem phased by Raphael’s insistency, or the hand fisted in his shirt, currently holding him against the wall of his apartment. He doesn’t live it, just uses it occasionally when Alec wants to come over. It’s always in a state of decay, since he only cleans it when his boyfriend stays.

“Why did you never tell me? I only knew a few months prior to our first meeting, yet you knew him for years?” Raphael asks, anger seeping into his tone.

“It was purely coincidental. I didn’t know Alec knew him; I only realised when I saw him. He had that thing about his soul, that aura about him only prophets have: it burns brighter.

I thought of telling you, but it would have ruined the surprise - plus, you know archangels can’t know before time. It would forbid them meeting.” Magnus replies.

“I don’t mean before we met. I mean after, when you knew we had met.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.” Magnus says, and rolls his eyes.

“How could it ever _not_ matter?” Raphael has calmed down now too, but he keeps the grip on Magnus’ shirt tight. Raphael takes a deep breath, but it’s choked, like his throat is closed up. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he doesn’t cry.

“Let us not focus on the past or the future, brother.” Magnus then speaks. Raphael knows he is speaking the truth when he says his next words, which makes him worry even more. “Let us focus on the present - the Event is tomorrow - and you must be ready.”

 

**…**

 

Raphael couldn’t stay the night, leaving Simon disappointed yet incredibly sated. He can feel his pulse beat like a butterfly against the spot where Raphael kissed his throat. He ghosts the pads of his fingers over the spot, not wanting to touch it, not wanting to make the kiss wipe away.

 _What you do to me..._ Simon thinks, sinking into his bed.

He goes over everything that has happened this day, but his mind always goes back to the same moment - when they’re dancing, and Raphael is looking up at him. He mentally replays the look in Raphael’s eyes, how open he was, how exposed. Eyes are the mirrors of the soul, and Simon saw everything then. Or so he thinks.

The rest of the day is a blur, even the emotional shock of discovering his friends’ true identities.

He rolls around in bed, burying his head in the pillow and blushing like a schoolgirl.

He has no idea of what is coming for him, and it’s better this way. Simon waits, half-expecting Raphael to appear, but he knows it isn’t going to happen, so he shuts his eyes, butterflies of excitement making him restless.

Calmly, he sleeps.

 

**...**

 

Simon is awoken by the feeling of searing hot sand against his skin, in his mouth, on his lips, in his hair, sealing his eyes shut. He opens them, and chokes when he sucks in a deep breath, the air as hot as the sand, dust getting into his throat and into his nose, burning him and making him cough his lungs up, seemingly.

He turns around, still shocked from being woken up in such a sudden and brash manner. Nothing but miles of copper desert dunes stretch out before him in all directions, a sea of sand that envelops him like a man lost at sea. He stands, feeling relief as his skin no longer screams in pain. His eyes burn as well, and his limbs feel like they’re made of nothing but heavy iron.

He ploughs through the sand, walking at a slow pace, trying to find something other than endless waves of red dust.

Simon cries out, “Anyone? _Can anybody hear me?_ ” but receives no answer. He pinches himself, to try and see if it is a dream, but it’s not.

His aimless trudging through the desert is stopped short when he hears the familiar wailing again, hurting his head and making his ears ring. He falls to the sand on his knees, his thin pajamas doing nothing to shield him from the burning sand. Simon barely feels it as he grips the sides of his head. Then, a piercing white light fills his vision, even with his eyes open, and it splits his mind and thoughts, but it is a cold light, much like a hospital light, or starlight on a crisp winter night. He can feel it everywhere, but the sensation lasts only seconds, and then he feels empty, like Simon’s very soul has left him; though it is only brief, and then he is filled with an incredible feeling of _knowing,_ like his primal instincts have suddenly developed and grown into a rope that is tied around him, pulling him in one direction.

He scrambles up, stands, and without really knowing what’s happening, walks. He walks and walks, not knowing where he is going, like his feet have developed a mind of their own. Thoughts of hydration and hunger are pushed aside, and Simon doesn’t know what it is, but he feels it, an incredible urge to get there, to this place in the middle of the desert.

His feet don’t drag, fueled by an unknown source of stamina. Simon can feel his skin burn, and his feet getting charred by the searing heat of the sand beneath him, his eyes dry from the arid wind.

At some point, he feels himself move faster, as if his body knows he’s nearing his destination. The sun beats down on him unrelentlessly, and the sky is its usual crisp, pure blue. His vision blurs though, the heat turning the landscape before him to ripples, like a constant mirage.

Then, at some random point, when he’s so exhausted he can’t feel his limbs and his whole body is drenched in sweat, he collapses on the desert sand, but the gut feeling stops.

 

**…**

 

Simon’s eyes blink open slowly. His mind, bleary with sleep, struggles to emerge from the inky depths of unconsciousness. The prophet shakes his head, and tries to figure out where he is. His hands feel something under them that’s wet and freezing. His clothes are damp, and his hair sticks to his forehead, but it isn’t sweat. He feels damp, clammy and cold.

When his eyes focus, he can see the slight crack in the ceiling above him and the thin ray of light that streams in through it. It’s not much, but it’s enough to see that he’s in a cave. Water drips from the ceiling to the ground, and moss grows on the walls. The stone is dark, and Simon is sitting on a wet spot. A shiver racks him from head to toe, and he curls in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest. The drops of water fall on his face, and without thinking of it, he tilts his head up and parts his lips, letting the water slide between them and quench his profound thirst. Simon swallows gratefully, and it feels like the first drop of water in centuries.

He then tries to think about anything, something that might tell him where he is, how to get out.

_Raphael._

It is the only thought implanted in his mind, engraved in fire. He feels a pang of guilt then, for not having thought of him all this time. He thinks of Raphael back home, and when they’d lain in bed together, just hearing each other breathe. He thinks of when they’d danced, and the feeling of Raphael’s soft lips on his throat, breathing _just_ on his skin, making him shiver in a good way.

A sudden sound rips him out of his thoughts, the sound of heavy footsteps that make the whole cave shake, wetting Simon further. A soft, red light shines, getting closer and closer, lighting up the small space. Simon curls in on himself even more, lowering his head so he’s only looking up through hooded eyes. He stills his breathing so it’s barely audible, and tries leaning back to see whether he can just up and run, fearful of whatever is coming his way.

His back hits the wall, and that’s when his eyes fall on the creature before him.

It’s colossal, as tall as the cave itself. It has great legs, like those of an eagle, with powerful talons. It possesses the torso of a man, naked and a ghastly white that seems to glow. Its arms are human as well, but they are lined with long, ripped feathers. Its fingernails are long and jagged, resembling claws. Its head is human as well, with long strands of dirty, dirt-coloured hair. Its face bares similarities to a human’s, except for the completely red eyes and the sharp fangs in its mouth.

 **“I am the great Asmodeus,”** the creature speaks, with a thundering voice so powerful it makes Simon’s ears hurt. **“the king of the Nine Hells, one of the seven princes of Hell: the prince of Lust.”**

Raphael’s voice rings in Simon’s head. _“Yes, demons. I need you to remember that, Simon. It’s very important. Understood?”_

“Why am I here?” Simon replies in barely a whisper, his mind blocked.

The demon doesn’t reply, merely steps closer to Simon. It reaches its claw out to Simon, and the prophet instinctively shrinks back, but he can’t _go_ anywhere, so he awaits its touch, cold and eery.

When the claw reaches his skin, it all fades to black once more.

 

**…**

 

_Dark, everything is dark._

_“Simon,” a voice whispers behind him, one he’d recognise anywhere._

_“Raphael,” Simon replies, turning to face him. Instead of wearing his hard face, he sports a smirk, and his hands reach for Simon’s hips. “Wh - what -”_

_Raphael doesn’t reply, just pushes them back until Simon falls back onto a bed. Raphael climbs onto him, and attaches his lips to the prophet’s neck, licking and sucking._

_“What’s - Raphael - what are you -” Simon mumbles, confused._

_“Shhh. Let me.” Raphael growls, and then his hands are on Simon’s belt._

_All of the sudden, their clothes are off._

_“Raphael, don’t -” Simon mumbles, completely confused, pushing at Raphael’s shoulders, trying to move him off._

_“Calm down,” Raphael insists in a voice that isn’t his own. When he looks Simon in the eyes, his own are dark and distinctly_ not his.

_Simon now really wants to leave, puzzled and perturbed. He puts his knee between Raphael’s legs and kicks upwards, using this momentary leverage to roll them over so he’s on top. Raphael smirks and laughs, letting his head fall against the pillows._

_“Feisty.” he whispers, and then pulls Simon down, trapping him with his legs, pulling his lips closer and closer as Simon thrashes and -_

 

**…**

 

Simon wakes up, feeling a sudden shot of adrenaline course his body. He’s back in the desert, on his knees, the hot winds whipping his hair across his face, the sand scratching at his skin.

There’s a hand gripping his own.

“Raphael,” he murmurs, because he just _knows._ He momentarily remembers the feeling of those hands trailing down his sides, gripping at his hips, but then realises those weren’t real.

“Simon,” Raphael mumbles back, holding his face between his hands, his golden-brown eyes scanning every inch of his skin for cuts or bruises or pain, his real eyes.

Simon feels like he has found his home here in Raphael’s arms.

“I missed you.” It leaves Simon’s mouth before he can help it, and he’s reaching his arms to cup Raphael’s neck, his face, twist into his hair, make sure it’s _him,_ he’s there.

“I told you,” Raphael offers a small smile. “My heart would ache for you. It has.”

“Where are we, Raphael?” Simon asks, getting brought back to reality by the feeling of his throat drying when he swallows saliva. “Why are we in a desert?”

“I cannot explain now,” is all Raphael says. “I will explain when we get back, I promise.”

“How will we get back?”

“Trust me.” Raphael says, then moves his hand away to place it over Simon’s and grip it tight as reassurance.

Simon looks away, embarrassed from the sudden attention he’s receiving, but he can’t help feeling like this, like it’s all too much.

“Raphael, there is something in there, something terrible.” the prophet warns, gripping Raphael’s hand back. “He said he is a prince of hell -”

“Asmodeus,” Raphael interrupts. “the demon of lust.”

Simon gets flashbacks from moments ago, from the cave, and the memory of his vision…

“He made me see something.” Simon grits out, unable to look Raphael in the eye.

“What did he make you see?” Raphael asks, lowering his voice, it being the only soft thing in this dry and unforgiving land.

“I - I don’t -” Simon doesn’t want to tell him.

“I think I know.” Raphael says. “Asmodeus is the demon of Lust, and as such, he would have probably made you see yourself in a lewd place with the person you lust for the most. I roused you from it, and probably changed it in some way.”

 _The person I lust for the most?_ Simon thinks, panicking inwardly.

“Did he hurt you?” Raphael inquires, leaning forward.

“N - no.” Simon stutters. He can’t focus, not when there’s so much going on in his mind, and Raphael is _so damn close._

“Look at me,” Raphael beckons. The hand that still cups Simon’s face tilts it upwards, and then Simon doesn’t know what to do, feeling like putty under the angel’s hands, lost in the stormy seas of his eyes. “Did it hurt you?”

Simon struggles to find words. “No.”

Raphael nods, and then leans in even closer. The world is no longer there, under his feet, and the sky is no longer above their heads. All Simon can see is Raphael, _there,_ so close Simon could map him with his eyes.

 _“Raphael,”_ Simon breathes.

_“Simon,”_

They’re interrupted by a loud erupting noise, like the ground beneath them is splitting open. Beside them, the ground shakes and sand falls to the sides of a dune, making Simon and Raphael stagger back as the demon Asmodeus emerges from the sands, its eyes red and its mouth open in a snarl. It brandishes some sort of hellish wip covered with black flames.

 **“Who dares release my prisoner?”** Asmodeus roars, turning to look at Raphael and Simon still sprawled on the sand. Raphael stands, and pulls out his angel blade.

 **“I am the archangel Raphael, one of the seven who stand before the Lord.”** Raphael says in a voice to match the demon’s. Raphael isn’t as large - not in this form, at least - but he is a match, his own eyes ablaze with heavenly fire. **“Thy prisoner is the prophet Simon Lewis, one of the interpreters of the Lord’s word.”**

 **“Archangel Raphael, this is not the first time we have met.”** the demon bellows.

Simon can’t believe what he’s hearing, his mouth open and his eyes locked on the scene before him.

 **“I bound you before,”** Raphael challenges, defiant. **“I will do it again.”**

 **“That happened eons ago; you cannot expect to beat me now, Archangel.”** the demon lets out a great laugh, one that sounds like crackling thunder and blackened trees split by a lightning strike.

**“Yes, I can.”**

Raphael then turns to Simon, and pulls him onto his feet. He places his lips beneath his ear, just close enough to his skin to make the prophet’s hair stand at the back of his neck, and whispers: _“Run.”_

Simon takes off, looking behind him to see Raphael stand with the blade in his hand, facing off against Asmodeus. He starts to hear the ear-splitting sound of his true voice, and his back gets hot from the heat that Raphael’s true angel form releases. He runs and runs and runs, burning his feet on the sand. He sees something in the distance - a palm tree, and water that glistens and reflects the heat of the midday sun. He cannot hear the battle behind him, the roar of the wind and the sound of his own heartbeat too loud in his ears. He reaches the oasis, and then slows, practically not thinking about it when he jumps into the water. It’s cold and refreshing. Simon emerges and sighs in relief. He wades around in the water, gulping it down as he goes. His throat is relieved, and his body cools. He can feel his tired muscles relax in the shade.

When the initial relief passes, Simon turns to see whether the battle is visible from here. It isn’t. Simon worries, as usual, since he can only see something resembling a tornado of sand, spinning and drawing the arid desert dust to it.

He pulls himself out of the water, and lies in the shadow of the palm tree, where the ground is colder. He curls in on himself, and feels useless for not being able to help. He knows that if he tried, he’d get killed, but he can’t help but feel like maybe Raphael might need him.

His exhaustion beats his racing mind, and his eyes fall shut.

 

**...**

 

Simon can’t count the times he’s passed out, and he’s pretty sure this isn’t healthy, but when Raphael shakes him awake, he doesn’t seem to care.

The archangel’s face is battered and bloody, and a long cut runs from the top of his cheekbone down to his jaw. His clothes are stained with some sort of black substance, and his eyes are impatient and urgent.

“Raphael, what happened?” Simon asks, quickly standing up.

“We need to leave,” Raphael says. _“Now.”_

He hauls Simon up, then takes his hand and locks their fingers together.

“Close your eyes if you must.” Raphael warns quickly. Simon shuts his eyes.

Simon feels the wind being knocked out of him, and air ceases to exist. He can’t breathe, if only momentarily, and he can feel the darkness against his closed eyelids. He can’t hear a thing. It leaves him hollow, and he grips onto Raphael so tightly he’s sure he’s broken a bone or two (he hasn’t).

When Simon finally feels hard ground beneath his feet, he takes a deep breath, trying to get as much air into his lungs as possible. The sound of cars passing by him and busy streets make him open his eyes. A feeling of relief passes him once he realises they’re in New York once more.

Simon turns to Raphael, but then the archangel is tugging on him and they’re running again. Simon is sure he’s lost quite a bit of weight, what with all the running he’s doing.

They skid to a stop once they reach an empty alley with a dead end.

“Raphael,” Simon pants, and tugs his hand away. “what’s going on?”

“Asmodeus,” Raphael replies, worry evident in his gaze. “I tried to bind him like I did so many years ago, but he has grown stronger, and I have not been able to. I came to bring you back, so maybe here he will not find us, but -”

As if reading his thoughts, his speech is silenced by the crack of a great whip and a smell of burning, rotten corpses. Simon and Raphael both look up at the same time, and see Asmodeus standing in the alley, the corners of its appalling mouth upturned.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Asmodeus brandishes his weapon, and lifts the whip before bringing it down with all his might. Simon stares, horrified, as the whip of corded fire gets closer, before - 

Raphael splays his wings, golden and beautiful, infused with the flames of heaven, every single feather a spark in the bonfire of burning gold. It stops the whip, and Raphael cries out, the smell of charred skin rising in the air, pungent and abhorrent. It makes Simon want to vomit. 

Simon looks up at Raphael, feeling small, vulnerable. 

“Raphael, why -” he wants to ask, but Raphael looks up at him with heavy eyes. 

“Leave, Simon. I do not wish your death, but if you stay I can guarantee it will be swift. Go home. I’ll be back.” Raphael grits, his voice hard. 

“But you’re weakened and -” Simon tries, breathing on Raphael’s lips, feeling heat radiate from his wings. 

“Go,” the archangel says as the sound of the whip rising once more echoes behind them. “I can do this, as long as I have you here.” he raises Simon’s hand to his chest, where his heart is racing. “Now flee.”

Simon doesn’t have to think about it twice, and with one last worried glance at Raphael, takes off. 

Once he’s out in a crowded street, he slows to a jog, panting. He gets home as fast as he can without raising suspicion, split between wanting to go back and help Raphael and fleeing as fast as he can. He opts for the latter, ignoring the glances he’s getting from the mundane people walking down the street.Then again, most people don’t see a man running down the street barefoot and in pajamas every day.  

Simon then remembers that he left his house key inside, and wants to slap himself, but when he tries the doorknob, it’s open. 

He steps into the quiet, dark apartment. It looks the same as it did when he left, but that was only last night. It seems like a lifetime. 

He slips out of his clothes, and leaves them on the floor where he took them off. The water in the shower is warm, and it relaxes him. Simon washes at the cuts, and sees the blood and dirt trickle down his body and down the drain. 

When he’s done, he changes into a t-shirt and lies in bed, restless. He can’t sleep, not when he knows Raphael is somewhere out there, fighting a garish and impossible fight against the most terrifying creature Simon has ever seen. 

He lies with his eyes closed, but he doesn’t sleep. 

 

...

 

Asmodeus brings the whip up once more, and uses his other hand to knock Raphael back, using his claws to make gashes across his chest, slamming him into the wall. 

Raphael groans, bringing a hand up to his chest, eyes widening when he pulls them away, covered in blood. He grunts, and runs to the side of the building. 

Raphael leaps to the emergency staircase, running up the steps, and the whip falls on the wall and misses its target, cracking and burning the bricks. Raphael knows nobody can see them (the advantages of being an archangel) but if it gets too loud, they’ll hear. He shakes his head, grips the handle of his blade and jumps onto the back of the demon. 

**“Can’t transform now?”** Asmodeus taunts, knowing he can’t whip himself on the back. 

_ Not here.  _ Raphael thinks, knowing that if he does, all of New York will hear his true voice, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for the whole city becoming deaf. 

Instead, he climbs up Asmodeus’ back, sinking his blade into it and using it like a hook. Asmodeus cries out as well, a roar of fury, and uses its hands to reach back, but Raphael dodges the claws coming for him, watching the demon hurt himself in the process. 

**“You will** **_pay!_ ** **”** the demon exclaims, and Raphael smirks triumphantly. 

“I do not think so.” 

Raphael (not without difficulty) climbs to the top of the demon’s head, and without hesitation, sinks his blade into its head. 

The demon roars, a cry of pain and anguish, and now is when Raphael splays his wings and hovers above the demon. He brings his index and middle fingers together, and draws a circle in the air around the demon. Where his fingers trace the air, light shines and follows them, a circle that sinks into the ground, leaving Asmodeus unable to move. 

**“I am Raphael, one of the seven holy angels, which present the prayers of the saints, and which go in and out before the glory of the Holy One.**

**“I bind thee, Asmodeus, king of the Nine Hells, one of the seven princes of Hell, and banish thee to the lands of the upper Nile, cast for eons upon eons.”**

A circle of blinding light ensnares the demon, and as its cries are drowned out, he disappears into the circle of light. Raphael descends, and drops his blade on the floor, panting. 

A throbbing on the side of his head begins, and it isn’t from exertion. He knows Simon is in distress. He splays his wings once more, and goes, this time leaving no feathers behind. 

After all, they’re presents to his beloved, and for his eyes alone. 

 

__________

 

Simon hears before he sees, as always. He feels. 

He hears a flap of wings, feels the gust of wind that moves his hair and makes him shiver beneath the sheets. He hears the sheets moving, feels the bed dip, hears a sigh, feels the arm wrapping around his waist. 

But they don’t speak. Simon doesn’t say a word, he just turns in bed and presses their lips together hard, taking Raphael by surprise, kissing him like Simon’s drowning and the angel is his lifeline, his last chance of breathing air. 

Their lips work out of sync but it’s good enough. They’re breathing hard through their noses, hands tugging harshly at shoulders, hips and clothes, struggling to hold onto each other. 

When they break apart, Raphael is flushed from head to toe, his pupils blown, and his lips are red and swollen. 

Simon cups his face and traces circles in his cheeks with his thumbs. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, leaning his forehead on Raphael’s. That’s all the explanation he offers, but it’s more than enough, because Raphael understands that the knot is so tight there’s no space between the loops and the rope can’t get any shorter, causing them to crash into each other. 

“You needn’t worry; I will always come back to you.”

Simon’s eyes light up, and he smiles. 

They kiss again, but this time it’s slower, less passionate, sweeter. Simon rolls them over in bed so he’s straddling Raphael’s hips, lying above him, and when he slips his hands under Raphael’s shirt the angel gasps into the kiss, and Simon smirks. 

Simon is desperate, yearning to give Raphael weeks of withheld touches, looks and words in one night, in a moment, in a small fraction of time in this being’s life, but make it the most memorable. 

The prophet nuzzles Raphael’s neck, bites it gently, sucks on the soft skin, leaving red marks and making Raphael keen into him, roll his hips up. Simon gasps, looking up at Raphael with wide eyes, and the angel has a confused look on his face, making Simon giggle, something bubbly that rises from his stomach to his throat and out his mouth, something that makes Raphael smile too before he pulls Simon down by his shirt. 

“Simon -” Raphael whispers shakily. 

“Raph,” Simon murmurs, pulling away slightly, just gently rolling his hips. “Are you sure you want this? I don’t know if you’ve ever - we don’t have to -”

“Simon.” It’s that voice, the one that melts Simon’s heart and makes a mess of it, the one that makes him pliant under his hands. “I’ve never done  _ this,  _ but I can assure you right now that I’ve never wanted any _ thing  _ or any _ one  _ as much as right now.”

The prophet presses a kiss to Raphael’s forehead, to his cheeks, everywhere he can, his neck, his arms, his hands, the tip of his fingers.  

Simon’s hands are pulling at Raphael’s clothes, and he sits up, breaks the kiss to pull his own shirt off, and Raphael just stares for the longest time. 

Simon is most likely the most beautiful of the Lord’s creations, the missing Wonder of the World that nobody knows about. Raphael takes his hand as Simon blushes and looks away, sits up to meet Simon and press his lips to his prophet’s hands, worshipping him like he’s never worshipped anything before. 

His father would be proud. 

“Raphael, stop staring.” Simon chastises, letting out a shuddered breath and looking up at the ceiling. 

“I cannot.” Raphael breathes into the crook of Simon’s neck, running his hands down his sides and resting them at his hips, looking up at him as he pulls away. “Would you not stare, if the most beautiful being on Earth were before you?”

Simon gives out a short laugh. “I have learned how to, for I see him every week.”

Raphael presses their lips together again as they fall back onto the bed, and Simon rolls them over again so Raphael is sitting astride his hips, and Simon makes quick work of Raphael’s jeans, undoing the button and helping him pull them off with an urgency he hasn’t felt in years. 

This, their chests pressed together, the feeling of their hands on each other, is what they’ve been needing all this time. 

 

**…**

 

Simon lets out a ragged breath, and looks up in awe. Raphael’s bottomed out, and now there’s no space between them, no boundaries, they’re a single being. 

“Simon,” This is the hundredth time Raphael has called his name in this way tonight, the thousandth time, but it will never be enough, because Simon yearns for it, like he yearns for his touch and his hands and his very being. 

Raphael picks up the pace,  throwing his head back, but Simon slows him down, lifting himself up to meet Raphael’s lips, sliding him down so he’s seated in Simon’s lap. 

“Why are you -” Raphael breaks off in a high-pitched moan, “- slowing down -” he rocks his hips again, but Simon pulls him down, and though he’s deeper inside him, it’s still not enough. 

“I don’t want us to fuck,” Simon says, and though it’s a bit harsher than expected, Raphael just looks down at him with observant, curious eyes, unphased by the rough language. “I want us to - to -” Simon can’t say it, the two words he’s looking for caught in his throat. 

“Your wish is my command, my prophet.” Raphael then murmurs back, understanding. “I was made to serve.”

Simon pushes him back down onto the bed so his arms are bracketing the angel, and then he moves just slightly, slowly, but it’s enough to have Raphael squirming beneath him. 

Simon just goes slow, and even though all his body calls him to do is to take Raphael in his hands and make a mess of him using sheer strength, he can’t, because he’s too enthralled by the way this immortal, celestial being with an infinite amount of power can be reduced to such a vulnerable, open creature under Simon’s hands, touch, influence. It both awes and scares Simon, but he can’t look away. 

“Raph, I -” Simon is cut off by Raphael letting out a loud cry, and Simon knows what he’s just found. 

“I know.” Raphael whispers as soon as he regains control of his body. 

When Simon kisses him as he rocks shallowly into him, Raphael feels it at the base of his spine, swelling as it sweeps through his entire body, reaching every cell and every nerve, and he knows what it is immediately. He pulls away to warn Simon. 

“Simon - close your eyes -  _ please - _ ” Raphael begs, and Simon frowns and slows down even further, frustrating Raphael. 

“Why? Are you okay?” Simon asks, and Raphael shakes his head, unable to speak, the fiery feeling reaching the top of his head, and he needs Simon to -

“Just close them -” Raphael grits out, and Simon obeys, leaning his head on Raphael’s shoulder as he canters his hips faster. 

Then Simon feels nothing he’s ever felt before. 

The searing heat from Raphael’s true form comes again, but it’s dulled down, and instead he sees the white against his eyelids, but instead of hearing the deafening cry of an angel’s true form, he hears Raphael’s true voice, something indescribable that shakes him to the core and rattles his bones straight down to his soul. 

**_“Simon.”_ **

And that alone, the feeling of knowing this small yet large part of Raphael, this revelation, is enough to have Simon moaning loudly and biting Raphael’s shoulder as he comes,  _ hard,  _ flooding Raphael with warmth. 

Now that they’ve reached their peak and begun descent, Simon realises that their very life essence has combined to make them one, and there’s no way either of them can ever go back to the way they were before - not this moment - but each other. 

Simon lies on Raphael’s chest, his arms around the prophet. 

They don’t say anything for the longest time, just listening to each other breathe. 

Simon thinks. Even after all of this, after evidence of hunters and angels and demons, he’s still an atheist, because how could Heaven ever compare to the feeling of lying in Raphael’s arms? It can’t. 

After thinking some more, Simon panics. “Raph, are you in trouble now?” 

Raphael frowns and looks down at the man lying on his chest. “What?”

Simon props himself up on his elbow, looking more distraught than Simon’s ever seen him. “I mean - did I make you fall?”

Raphael looks bewildered, and gives him a confused look. “Huh?”

“Because - because I’m a dude - and you just had sex with me -” Simon explains, looking away.

“So?” Raphael still doesn’t understand. 

“Isn’t that like...illegal or something?” 

The archangel’s eyes widen, and then he gives a hearty laugh. “Oh Simon...did you really believe that my Father would make me a demon for having sex?” his voice softens. “God does not punish love.”

Simon’s the one looking bewildered, but instead of overreacting, he giggles lightly and leans forward to press his lips to Raphael’s, then lie on him once more. 

“Now what?” Raphael asks. 

“Now we sleep.” Simon sighs. 

“But -”

_ “Sleep.” _

The archangel let out a last, breathy laugh, before shaking his head and falling prey to slumber with his prophet safely in his arms. 

 

**...**

  
  


**_2 MONTHS LATER_ **

 

Simon squeals loudly and jumps when he feels a pair of arms embracing him from behind, slipping under his shirt. They’re cold, and Simon feels his heart wanting to burst out of his chest.

“You scared me!” he exclaims, mock-hitting Raphael’s arm.

“Did I?” Raphael inquires, a teasing undertone to his voice. “I had no idea.”

Simon frowns. “You’ve become cockier.”

A look of confusion passes over Raphael’s face. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” Simon sighs, “I take it back. Forget I said anything.”

Raphael moves to sit beside Simon on the stool, leaning over the island in the kitchen. “I want to do something with you.” 

Simon shoots him a look, glancing away from his computer. “Oh?”

“I have nothing to do.” Raphael whines, nudging Simon with his elbow. 

“I’ve got to write. The deadline’s in two weeks, remember? And wasn’t it you who told me I had to be more responsible?” Simon gave him a look of satisfaction, but Raphael wasn’t having it. 

“Yes, but not when I have nothing to do.” Raphael deadpans. 

“Mmhmm.” Simon hums, and then goes back to writing, ignoring Raphael partially out of needing to finish, and partially to spite him. “Don’t you have prayers to answer or something?”

Raphael doesn’t reply, and Simon is so engrossed in his work he doesn’t see him moving behind him until he’s being forcefully picked up and slung over the angel’s shoulder, who hauls him over to the bedroom. 

“Let me go, you animal!” Simon exclaims, bursting into agonised laughter when he’s dropped on the bed and suddenly being tickled mercilessly. “Stop, it, stop!” he yells to no avail. “Fine! I’ll do something with you!”

At that, Raphael stops. Simon’s laughter slowly dies out, and when he looks up at Raphael, the angel is staring at him like a begging puppy. 

“Quit looking at me like that.” Simon says, pushing Raphael away slightly. 

“Like what?” 

Simon doesn’t reply, just smiles sheepishly at him through his fingers. Raphael sighs and shakes his head, bending down to press his forehead against his prophet’s. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” Raphael mumbles, prying Simon’s hands away from his face and locking their fingers together. 

“Get  _ really  _ unlucky.” Simon snorts, making Raphael giggle. 

“That too.” Raphael agrees. 

“Bastard,” Simon breathes, and then leans up to kiss him. 

They don’t end up doing anything - they lie on the bed, basking in the light of the setting sun. Raphael splays his wings for Simon, and he makes a mental note about writing about the way they catch the golden sunlight. They tell each other corny jokes and Simon asks Raphael questions whilst the bewildered archangel answers them and smiles. 

Simon wonders why he ever hated being a prophet - if he’d known it meant getting an angel boyfriend in the process, he wouldn’t have ever complained. 

After all, he still gets to be an atheist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! So this is my frist proper story after 'Blue' and 'Red', and I must say, it's been fun! I wanted to write a short book but with long chapters, and after finding some inspiration, I knew what I had to do.   
> I was afraid I would drop it after a week from lack of inspiration, but I kept going and look what you got as a result!  
> I hope you've enjoyed, and I'll see you soon!  
> P.S. There's a new saphael story coming soon! ;)


End file.
